


Blackbirds of a Feather

by Amorette



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 00:31:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13224444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amorette/pseuds/Amorette
Summary: My personal version of what really happened to Severus Snape.





	Blackbirds of a Feather

Blackbird  
by Amorette 

Being both freezing cold and burning hot at the same time is an intense experience. It’s also painful. Unbelievably agonizing. The heat is the venom dissolving my veins. The cold at my back comes seeping up from the filthy floor beneath me. The heat is the blood pouring out of me, soaking into my robes. The cold is death coming to take me away.

I have given the memories to that miserable green-eyed boy. More than I probably should have, but nothing matters any more. I can feel my heart trying to contract around air as I bleed to death. Darkness overcomes even the burning of both hot and cold.

Then I hear a noise.

I can’t convince my eyes to open but there seems to be a weight on my chest and a strange ringing in my ears. Which is ridiculous. I’m dead. I shouldn’t be feeling or hearing anything. I was hoping for oblivion and I get wet.

Not my blood. Something even warmer, slicker, dripping onto my face and throat.

Into my throat.

I flap a hand uselessly, trying to chase away that bloody bird as I realize what is happening. 

There is a trilling sound, like a laugh, and the Phoenix tears keep falling on me. I can actually feel the flesh of my torn throat knitting closed. It is a more disconcerting sensation than having it ripped open. That was quick and painful. This is slow and feels. . .very odd. And it itches.

I open my eyes and find myself staring, at very close quarters, at that annoying bird of Dumbledore’s. Fawkes trills again, sounding very pleased with himself for having ruined my death. I try to push him away but all he does is lean forward and bites me on my nose.

There are limits and I have reached them. 

I sit up, flailing my arms, trying to chase that miserable, aggravating feathered version of Albus Dumbledore away.

I am not entirely successful. I lean back against the wall, gasping as my hands examine the once gaping wound at my throat. The bleeding has stopped and I encounter skin. Hot, as if I were burning with fever, and itching, as if a thousand tiny ants had paused to nibble there. Even as I run my fingers across the scars, I feel them fade and the pain subsides.

Bloody bird. 

Fawkes bounces forward, flapping his wings, and pecking at me. I swat him away several times until he manages to pull a vial out of my pocket. A vial of blood replenishing potion. Apparently Phoenix tears can only go so far. Since I am dizzy — and queasy from the dizziness — I swallow the contents of the vial.

As usual, my potions work exceeding well. I feel better in a heartbeat. 

Fawkes is now tugging at another pocket. General healing and replenishing potions. Right. Drink a couple of those and add a pain potion because even though my throat is healed, the back of my head hurts from where I hit it as I fell, plus my back did not enjoy lying on the cold floor.

I stagger to my feet and stare at the floor. Based on the amount of blood pooled there, soaking into the dry wood, I must have lost every drop in me. And then there is what is soaked into my robes, making them stiff and sticky. I take a second blood replenishing potion without even thinking just because I know I must need it.

The number five floats into my foggy mind. The body of the average human male has five liters of blood. From the looks of it, about four and a half of mine must have leaked out. 

Fawkes trills again, cocking his head to one side. If birds could smile, that obnoxious pile of feathers would be smiling. Showing all his teeth, too. 

My wand is lying in the blood. I summon it to my hand, rather surprised when it responds immediately. Then I look at my hands. I am an average male but I swear, it looks as if ten liters of blood poured on the floor, down my robes and over my hands. 

Now what? I look around, trying to decide what the fuck I am going to do. I was supposed to die. I was sure of it. Albus was sure of it. We all had to die — although I imagine that miserable boy will somehow survive in the end — for the Dark Lord to die. I made out my will, left it with my solicitor, paid all my bills and have made sure, every single morning for months, that if I died before nightfall, there would be no problems. I hadn't specified a service, though. I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to hold one for me. I’d be lucky if I wasn’t burned at the stake posthumously. 

Which is apparently just the wrong thing to think. Fawkes suddenly leaps up into the air, flaps his wings a few times, and bursts into flame.

I hadn’t survived near exsanguination to burn to death. Bleeding to death wasn’t painless but it was damned sight less painful than burning to death would be. I stagger, clutching at the wall, and manage to find my way to the door. I walk a few steps out into the field around the Shrieking Shack, then drop to my knees, unable to stand or move any farther.

I can feel the heat at my back and smell the acrid smoke. I should try to get up and run away but all I manage is to fall facedown on the grass. After a few seconds, I roll over, staring up at the sky.

The sky is grey, mostly overcast, but the underside of the clouds are lit with flashes of curse light and, closer to me, flames.

My left arm suddenly sends a surge of pain through me, as bad as the pain of my throat being ripped out. I clutch it, crying out, and roll over.

I think I lose consciousness for a few minutes. Or maybe more. At any rate, when I open my eyes, the sun is breaking through the clouds and the shack is a pile of embers.

I sit up. Considering what had occurred in the last few hours — hell, the last decade — I actually feel well. Even my usual chronic heartburn is gone. 

I stand up, surprised at how easy it was. Really, I do feel physically excellent, perhaps better than I ever had before. Mentally, however. . .

Something moves in the smoldering ashes. I stare at it, blinking stupidly. Really, my body might have recovered but mind is definitely not up to snuff. 

It is Fawkes.

Of course. 

He trills at me and I move forward without thinking. My robes are stiff and, quite frankly, distinctly whiffy, but there was nothing I can do about that now. Fortunately, Fawkes is near the edge of the ashes and relatively easy to reach. I bend down and pick him up.

What the hell?

For anyone who doesn’t know, the Phoenix is reborn in fire and is fire colored. All red and gold. A born Gryffindor. The bird I am holding in my hands is not.

He cheeps and nibbles at my thumb. He feels warm and soft in my hands. 

“What did you do, you ridiculous beast?” I am surprised to hear my own voice and even more surprised that it sounds perfectly normal. 

Leaning down, I try to make out what exactly had happened to Fawkes when he bites me on the nose again. I would have dropped him but at the same instant his beak met mine, the world spins around and I am no longer standing outside the ruins of the Shrieking Shack.

The room I am in must be on the top floor of a building. The roof is so steeply pitched, I can only stand upright for a few feet in the center. There is a window at one end, above a staircase, and a door at the other end of the long, narrow space. A bed that looks a bit like a prison cot is tucked under the roof. On the opposite side from the bed, a battered trunk stands. My trunk. My old school trunk, no less.

I set Fawkes down on the bed, then sat down myself.

What the fuck?

I take a couple of deep breaths and suddenly realize I what I was smelling, aside from myself and the sort of musty attic smell I expected. Goats. 

A white-haired head is coming up the stairs. I’m not at all surprised to see Aberforth Dumbledore. He doesn’t seem surprised to see me, either.

“They say the Potter boy killed Tom Riddle,” says Aberforth in a conversational tone, as if we were discussing the weather. “Died, Potter did, then came back to life. Too late for Riddle, though. He’s dead as a doornail.”  


“Good,” I say, for lack of anything else. 

“I imagine you have a few questions.”

I shake my head. “No. I should have known your brother would manage to fuck up my death from beyond the grave.” 

“Well,” says Aberforth, “He was an interfering git, he was.”

We stare at each other for a moment. Then Aberforth points to the door opposite the stairs. “You can wash in there. Should be clothes in the trunk.”

“Then what?”  


Aberforth shrugs. “No idea. Is that Fawkes? Why is he that color?”

I look at the Phoenix chick, which has tucked its head under its wing. Bloody thing is already twice the size it had been when I pulled it out of the ashes.

“I thought it was the ashes at first,” I reply. “But it’s not. He’s black. And silver.”

“Bloody hell.” says Aberforth.

“Yes.”

I apparently am now the happy owner of not only the world’s only Phoenix but the only black and silver Phoenix in history. I wish I could kill Albus all over again.

“You should wash up.” Aberforth sniffs pointedly. I must really stink if he is complaining. He waves his hand and a tray with tea and sandwiches floats up the stairs to settle on top of the trunk. “Best see to my customers,” he says, turning and walking away. Albus definitely got all the demonstrative behavior in that family.

I decide to start with a bath. The door leads to a decent-sized bathroom, too big to fit in the space it occupied. There is a long, deep, claw-foot tub which fills when I wave my wand at it. I strip, dropping my clothes on the floor. They really are disgusting. Once I sink into the hot water, I burn my garments with a swish and flick, then sit back in the bath.

Between the blood and the ashes, the water is quickly filthy so I replace it, then just lie back to think.

Now what? 

Actually, I begin to appreciate what a clever fellow Albus Dumbledore was. Not only had he saved my miserable life, he had covered up the fact that I wasn’t dead. The Shrieking Shack was a pile of burnt wood and ashes. If someone ever came back for my corpse, they would assume it was burnt to ash as well. So I could go away and no one would ever know. Besides Aberforth, and it wasn’t as if he were going to tell anyone.

I planned a long soak but, truth was, I am hungry and rested so I get out of the bath and use the surprisingly nice towels to dry off. I wrap one around my waist, although I don’t know why I am being that modest. It’s not as if Fawkes cares. If he had ever seen Dumbledore starkers, he shouldn’t be offended by my skinny arse.

I sit on the bed, levitating the tea over, warming the pot and pouring a mug. The sandwiches are a bit dry and I was never that fond of cheese and ham but I need sustenance. When I finish eating, I raise the lid of the trunk to see what Albus’ plans are for me.

On top are muggle clothes. Black wool trousers, a white linen shirt, gray wool waistcoat and black suit coat, as well as the necessary smalls, socks and shoes. I lift them out and set them aside. I had put the tea tray on the floor so I pile the clothes on the bed. Fawkes, who looks about half grown now, snorts and twitches in his sleep but otherwise ignores me.

I kneel to look into the trunk and what I see there makes me laugh.

Bloody sodding brilliant Albus Dumbledore.

On top is a copy of my muggle birth certificate. Under that, my NHS card and my driver’s license. The driver’s license was what made me laugh. I had had one, briefly, in my late teens, but not since. This one is current, apparently issued a few months before. Then there is a lease for a flat that is completely paid up for one year. There is a BRP, a current passport — the photo was actually almost flattering, for me, copies of my certificates of education. I was apparently an excellent student and am qualified to teach advanced maths, Latin and Greek. I am also a member of some organization of experts on runes. Then there is a checkbook and savings book. I have enough to live on comfortably for a year at least, more, if I keep to my usual frugal habits.

It also appears I am current on all my taxes, own a small automobile, fully insured, and belong to a darts club in Hull.

Under that is a suitcase, modern, with retracting handle and wheels. It contains much more than it should be able to, several change of clothes, with undergarments, shoes, top coat, scarf, ties, even a black umbrella.

All I can do was sit on the floor and laugh. I am crying, too. Fortunately, there are a dozen handkerchiefs in the suitcase. I make such a spectacle that Fawkes wakes up and squawks at me.

What else can I do? I dress, tucking my identification into a very nice calfskin wallet. The other papers I wouldn’t need to carry with me go into the suitcase. I shut it and stand up, handle in one hand. Albus was lucky. I know how to survive in the muggle world and actually had real documents to prove it.

Fawkes, who appears to have reached his full growth while I was sorting through my future, really is silver and black. Frankly, I thinks it a much more handsome color scheme than previously. He flaps his wings and I hold out my arm so he can land on it.

We stare at each other. Then I say, “I’m ready,” and he bites me on the nose again, taking me to whatever the future holds.

 

December 18, 2017


End file.
